Spain 2002 - Day 1

Left home at 13.00 to catch the 17.40 flight from Gatwick for Gerona and then on to Lloret de Mar. This year Emma’s bringing her best friend Camille. Arrived at the airport at 14.30 and immediately started queuing at the check-in desk. The queues were ridiculously long as usual and positioned about halfway along the queue was a nice lady showing everyone a board she was holding which contained rows of forks, pen knives, dinner knives, scissors, corkscrews and nail files all hanging from hooks. As we reached her she said, “If you have any of these items or any other sharp objects in your hand luggage you are liable for arrest and will be refused access to your flight. Do you have anything sir?” “No,” I said, “Certainly not,” and we moved along.

At this point Pauline said, “Did you remember to pack the corkscrew?”

“Yes, don’t worry,” I said, “It’s in my hand lugg-. Jesus, it’s in my hand luggage, it’s in my hand luggage. Pauline, the corkscrew, it’s in my hand luggage, it’s in my hand luggage.” I tried to slip it into Camille’s bag when she wasn’t looking but couldn’t catch her off-guard.

“It’s all right,” said Pauline, “just undo the zipped compartment on my case and slip it in there.”

“But it’s in my hand luggage, it’s in my hand luggage, bloody hell, it’s in my hand luggage, right OK, I’ll do that,” I said. I casually fumbled with the case lock and dropped the corkscrew in. Phew! Another crisis over.

Past the nice lady with the knives and special sharp objects and further on towards the check-in desk there was a small weighing machine. This was available to anyone who wanted to weigh their hand luggage to ensure that it weighed less than 5 kilos so as to save time at the desk. This was new to me, I hadn’t had to weigh my hand luggage before but as it was optional Pauline said, “Don’t bother, I know mine is heavy but I can explain why if she queries it, they very rarely weigh hand luggage when you check in anyway.” I decided, out of interest, to weigh mine. I didn’t have much in it really, camcorder, newspapers, battery chargers, books and magazines. I glanced back at the nice lady with the knives and sharp objects, smiled and thought that if I was in airline security, she’d be the first one I’d arrest, she looked a bit shifty to me.

As I was putting my bag on the scales I suddenly thought, “5 kilos? It doesn’t sound much to me,” as I watched the needle shoot up to 8 kilos. Bloody hell, if my bag was over the limit at 8 kilos, God knows what Pauline’s bag must weigh, you could hardly lift hers.

“My bag’s over the limit,” I whispered to Pauline while glancing back at the nice knife lady and giving her a friendly wave.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Pauline in a not very reassuring way.

Finally we got to the check-in desk and everything went fine until the woman said, “Have you any hand luggage?”

“Yes,” we said.

“Can I see it?” she said

We held the bags aloft and swung them around in a nonchalant manner in an effort to show her how light they were. I tried to disguise the weight of mine by holding it up with my little finger and gritting my teeth but I think I gave the game away by whimpering a bit.

The woman took one look and said, “We’ll have to weigh those.” Bloody hell, first the knife lady, now the bag lady, where will it all end? Pauline gave her bag to the woman and promptly said, “I’m sorry, I know my bag’s over the limit but it contains food and drink for the kids most of which we’ll use up before we board.”

“OK, that’s fine,” said the bag lady without a second glance,“ can I have yours now sir?”

I was going to say “I’m sorry, I know my bag’s over the limit but I’ve already taken out a dangerous sharp object and hidden it in my suitcase to lighten the load,” but thought better of it. The bag lady weighed it and said, “You’ll have to take something out sir.” Blimey, Pauline’s bag weighed three times as much as mine and she got away with it. “Right,” I said, “I’ll take this camcorder out.” which I did and slung it across my shoulder. Now, why did all that matter? If I was walking onto the plane with the same weight but not all in the same bag, did it make any difference? Was it just to make sure that any bags in the overhead lockers that fell out just gave someone mild concussion instead of knocking them out cold? I suppose it was but as soon as we’d left the desk I put the camcorder back in the bag and we made our way to the departure lounge.

As we approached the security scan we passed more signs about sharp objects and criminal proceedings. Oh no, I’ve got those battery chargers in my bag with 13 amp plugs on, does a plug count as a sharp object? You could cause quite bit of damage if you attacked somebody with a 3 pin plug couldn’t you? Suppose they do count as a dangerous object. I’m finished if they do. I’ll be arrested, pulled off the flight, interrogated and quite possibly, beaten and tortured. Worst of all, Emma won’t be able to charge up her Discman for the whole of the holiday. Thank God, the bag got through. Dear oh dear, first the knife lady then the bag lady now the security lady. Is there no end to this? I’m a nervous wreck already.

The flight itself went fine. No delays and took about 90 minutes. Pauline and the two girls were in a row of 3 while I was across the aisle next to two 20-something females who never stopped talking rubbish the whole journey. I did have one nasty moment though when the onboard announcement at the beginning of the flight said, “Ladies and gentlemen, there are 3 toilets on the aircraft. One at the front of the plane and two immediately behind row 13.”

We were in row 14.

I looked across at Pauline. I looked to my left, looked to my right, looked up, looked down and thought if anyone tries to wee on me they’re in big trouble. Perhaps our seats are convertible commodes for the use of all the passengers. If they are I’m going to be up and down like a yo-yo the whole flight aren’t I? I looked under my seat expecting to see great big plastic containers but no, nothing. Then Pauline patted my arm. “It’s all right,” she said, “they said row 30.”

The in-flight snack was a paper bag with a cheese roll inside. The girl next to me suddenly paused in mid conversation with her friend – “and then I said to him, I said, you’re not putting that there and do you – is it vegetarian? – and anyway what happened was………….” The flight attendant had said, “Yes, it’s a cheese roll.” But the girl wasn’t listening anymore by then. I started to fumble with the cellophane on the roll and by the time I’d finally opened it I noticed fat mouth and her friend had eaten theirs already and I hadn’t noticed any gaps in their conversation. How did they do that? They must be ventriloquists is all I could come up with.

When we’d landed and were walking into the airport building I saw big mouth and her friend in front of us still talking nineteen to the dozen. They were not thin. They were pear-shaped to a remarkable degree, no, they were apple-shaped if you can imagine the stalk of an apple being their upper body and the apple being their lower half. I hadn’t noticed this before when I was on the plane as they were both sitting down. Those diet cokes you had during the flight are certainly helping you to keep on top of your weight problem girls.

Transfer to hotel took 20 minutes. Checked in, unpacked and out at 11.30 pm for a quick drink before bed.

Spain 2002 - Day 2

The hotel is three star and the facilities include 3 outdoor pools, 1 indoor pool, gym, games rooms, bars and God knows what else. According to a notice in reception among the games available are ‘table tennis, pool and crocket’. Must give crocket a try sometime. There’s also a notice in our room telling us that ‘ If sheets and towers are dirtied with tattoo ink, then you are liable to be changed’. Must be careful of that, although they must get quite a lot of the gay S & M crowd in to have to make a point of it eh?
 

We met the holiday rep at 4 pm for an ‘informal get together’. As is usual with these meetings, our rep Ross didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know or couldn’t have found out for ourselves in a matter of minutes. So another waste of our time. I don’t know why we go to these things, we always do and we always regret it. They’re all the same – bloody useless.
 

One of the pieces of paper Ross gave us is headed up ‘Events – Lloret de Mar’ and for Saturday we have a choice of either ‘Bar Crawl’ or ‘Party Night’.
 

This is Bar Crawl –
 

‘You’ll be mad to miss this night out in the famous Lloret de Mar! You will be taken with the help of your reps to the five liveliest bars in Lloret! You’d better make sure you’re prepared for a top night!’
 

Lots of exclamation marks there so it must be good eh? And for the privilege of walking around the town behind some spotty eighteen year old holiday rep it only costs £6.35! (That last exclamation mark was mine, sorry! Oops, so was that, sorry, sorry).
 

This is Party Night –
 

‘Join us in the Queen Vic, the best pub in Lloret de Mar for a night full of fun and games for all. A great way to start your holiday and make new friends.’
 

No exclamation marks here at all so Bar Crawl with three has got to be considered hasn’t it? It’s either that or sitting out by the hotel pool at 10 pm with a cold beer to watch the free hotel show. Mmmmm……what shall we do? The notice board in the hotel foyer has a poster advertising tonight’s show. It’s ‘Samba Night’. Oh yes, Samba. The poster shows six short men in big frilly flared shirts with big frilly flared sleeves, big frilly flared trousers, big frilly flared socks and big frilly flared shoes. Ten women in Carmen Miranda outfits with bunches of bananas stuck on their heads move and sway suggestively to the intoxicating Latin rhythms of a three piece combo while the six men shake their big frilly shoulders and barely concealed maracas in a frenzy of sexual abandonment. Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi-let’s-go………..
 

The reality was somewhat different as you’ve probably already guessed.
 

The show started at 10 pm and we arrived in good time to get a reasonably close table. The first thing that struck me was how on earth they were going to get six wild and crazy big frilly men and ten all dancing all singing bunches of bananas on a stage which seemed no bigger than my sun-bed. And then some pre-recorded music blasted out, slowly at the wrong speed at first but quickly reaching the right pitch just as the curtains bounced opened, and there running towards the front of the stage was the show - two girls in black shorts and black sports bras and three men in black shorts. They came belting downstage in a frenzy of disco dance moves, waving their arms, legs and heads around in a blur of disjointed dancing that didn’t fit the music at all.
 

I started to smile. Then giggle. The shoulders started to go and I couldn’t stop laughing. This is what it’s all about isn’t it? I thought at first it wouldn’t be worth watching but this is pure gold. The music stopped, the two girls left the stage and the three blokes tried to make us laugh. They thought the best way to do this was to have one bloke stage left, one stage right, one centre stage and then for the stage right man to shout “Ola!” in a loud deep voice while stage left man shouted “Ola!” in a high pitched poofy voice. For some inexplicable reason this went down fantastically well and when they dragged up two men from the audience and got them to shout “Ola! in high pitched poofy voices the audience fell about. Then, with no let up, they started to get the two men to copy various silly dance moves and body movements. By now the audience were in hysterics.
 

Now you may remember me mentioning a man centre stage. Well he didn’t appear to do very much at all while all this was going on, he just hopped around a bit while mugging at the audience. Perhaps he was the new boy just learning the ropes. Then the three men left the stage to thunderous applause and the two girls came back on, now in flowery brightly coloured bikinis. They also hopped around a bit, shaking their shoulders and smiling a lot and then they too, called for two men to come up on stage. This was all too predictable for words and like the three men before them they proceeded to get the two volunteers to do a shoulder shaking dance with a few grinds and bumps thrown in for good measure. Oh how we laughed.
 

Then it was the three men back on stage with the girls. The men had now changed into leopard skin loin-cloths and were holding a small stick in each hand. The sticks were slightly longer and thicker than pencils and as the naughty jungle rhythms insinuated themselves into our sub-conscious, the men jumped around hitting their sticks together which made a resounding and satisfying weedy clicking noise as they did so. While the men were working themselves into a frenzy of stick clicking the women hopped up and down. Then they all left the stage and one man came back. Oh no it’s going to be fire eating next.
 

Now, I thought the sticks were small but I’m not exaggerating when I say that the two fire eating wands he was holding were the size of a children’s sparkler. In each hand he was waving around a short metal rod with a flickering flame at the tip which looked no bigger than a candle flame. In fact if you can imagine someone swaying about holding two birthday candles close to their naked flesh but not actually touching, then you get some idea of the danger and excruciating pain he was putting himself through. He went down a bomb though. I nearly spilt my lager with laughter. What a Samba show eh? No men in big frilly outfits. No Carmen Mirandas. No Samba music and no three-piece combo. But then we didn’t expect there to be did we?
 

It all ended up with the five performers leading a small group of people in a Conga around the front of the stage and that was it. The Samba Show had finished with not a Samba in sight.
 

Can’t wait for Monday’s show, more of which later.

Spain 2002 - Day 3

Quiet day by the pool.
 

There’s one huge pool area consisting of a series of interconnected pools, small bridges and other interesting features and another pool area on the other side of the hotel, smaller, less busy and quieter. We spent some time yesterday by the big pool but it was really too crowded and despite all the signs prohibiting portable stereos we were surrounded by groups of foreign ‘lads’ all playing their own favourite CDs. One wouldn’t have been too bad but having to listen to two or three different bloody music tracks at the same time was ridiculous. One bloke even had his stereo set up with separate speakers, it was like a bloody disco. So today we’re by the quiet pool and Emma and Camille are quite naturally over by the noisy, crowded and exciting one.

Spain 2002 - Day 4

Just having another look at the piece of paper Ross gave us on Saturday.

This is Around The World In Eighty Minutes –

‘Around The World In 80 Minutes!! Lights, camera, action – this is your chance to see your reps as you’ve never seen them before. We’ve planned a fabulous package of guaranteed laughter, fun, live singing and professional dancing. A night suitable for big kids and little kids alike with something old, something new, something hilarious and of course something just that little bit blue!!!

Star points –

A mouth-watering meal.

Two whole hours of free flowing sangria, beer and soft drinks.

Kids World team on hand.

Hilarious show.

The best night of your holiday, a night with a difference……Fantastic value for money. You will see various dances and sketches to delight and amuse you. A night full of entertainment complemented by a full meal. This will definitely be the best night of your holiday.’

Bloody hell, exclamation marks working overtime here. Not one, not even content with double but an astounding triple at the end of one sentence. This must be too good to miss! Sorry about that exclamation mark, I got carried away for a minute. Three exclamation marks is a virtual guarantee of a good time isn’t it? And it only costs £22.50 per adult, £11.20 per child. What a bargain. How do they do it for such a reasonable price? Top class entertainment, fabulous, fabulous, fabulous, fabulous meal and free drinks for two hours only. We’ll have to consider this very carefully I think. Now….let me see….shall we go? What do you think? Did we hell. And that’s exactly what it would be like as we all know full well don’t we?

Mind you, three exclamation marks. Don’t come across them too often. Perhaps we should have gone after all!!!

The poster advertising tonight’s free hotel show is a line drawing of a short, fat bloke dressed in a typical Arabian Night’s costume of turban, waistcoat (no shirt), baggy trousers tied at the ankle and those funny slippers with curly toes. He’s standing on a stage surrounded by writhing snakes. There are snakes everywhere. Snakes entwined around the stage pillars, snakes on the floor, snakes hanging from the ceiling and even snakes in the grass. I made that last one up. The really worrying thing about the poster is the perspective or more to the point, the lack of it. Along the top of the poster is just one word ‘Kirman’ and Kirman is shown standing on the stage holding an enormous sword above his head, the size of which bears no relation to reality. (His sword, not his head). In real life it would be about 20 feet long and would stretch from one side of the stage to the other while the snakes would all be the size of man-eating serpents.

We’ve got to see this haven’t we? Giant swords? Giant snakes? And Kirman. What’s he going to do? Magician? Strong man? Hypnotist? Who knows. But I’ll be there tonight and so will you.

Meanwhile it’s another day by the pool.

Went to a nearby bar for a drink and some tapas and was pleased to see that they served ‘Damm-Bier’. The sort of beer that you can’t ask for nicely can you? No matter how polite you are, no matter how pleasantly you say it accompanied by a friendly smile you just sound like you’ll kill the barman if he gives you any lip. And if you’re really in a foul mood then a bar selling this stuff is a must just so you can sound really, really mean by shouting, “Oi, give me a damn Damm beer and make it snappy bartender.” In fact every time I ask for a Damm-Bier I feel so embarrassed I keep apologising afterwards. It’s getting so bad I’m thinking of changing my drink.

The show’s about to start.

Music from ‘El Cid’ starts playing and someone announces Kirman, pronounced ‘Keerman’. The curtains part and there he is. Looking remarkably like he did on the poster. That’s always a good sign, and yes, he’s holding aloft a big sword…and yes, oh yes….there’s a snake coiled around one end of it. Even his outfit looks surprisingly smart. He’s made an effort at least, not like those Samba dancers on Saturday. This is all boding quite well for a change. By now he’s got rid of his big sword and he’s prowling up and down the stage with the snake draped over his shoulders. He walks up and down, pauses, walks up and down, pauses, walks up and down, pauses and then………wait for it………walks up and down again, pauses, then……..walks up and down again. Bloody hell, when’s he going to do something entertaining?

All this walking up and down has had a remarkable effect on the audience, many of whom are actually standing up to get a better look at the snake, masses of kids are running around the front of the stage trying to touch the snake and there’s even a group of people forming a queue at the side of the stage.

And do you know what Kirman’s act was? All he did was let all these idiots who appeared never to have seen a snake in their lives before, stand on the stage while he draped the poor snake around each of their shoulders.

That’s it.

That’s all he bloody did for the entire time he was on. And the people loved it. Grown men and women were fighting to get up on stage and stand there grinning inanely in front of their friends and relatives with a snake around their shoulders. (Their friends and relatives didn’t have a snake around their shoulders, the people on the stage did)

Un-bloody-believable.

Oh, I forgot. Kirman did vary it a bit. At the end he did about two minutes of fire-eating with real-sized flame torches I might add and his finale consisted of making great play of showing us a sort of small cart wheel of which the spokes had flame torches poking out around the rim. To thunderous applause he slowly and dramatically lit each one until he had a flaming wheel in his hand…..and then what did he do with it?

He held a small axle at the back of it and twiddled the wheel around.

That’s all he did.

That’s all he bloody did.

This was the climax of his act and he twiddled a flaming wooden wheel around a bit.

Then he picked up his big sword, held it aloft again and walked off waving.

I don’t believe this. I know it’s free but bloody hell, this is pathetic.

Can’t wait for the next night’s show.

 

Spain 2002 - Day 5

The hotel has signs around the pools prohibiting the playing of stereos, the playing of ball games and a separate sign saying ‘No Diving’. It’s difficult to see them though because of the crowds of people playing stereos, blokes playing football and people diving into the pool.

We’re provided with half-board, breakfast and evening meal, both served up in a help yourself buffet format. Not many English tourists around the place. Don’t hear much English being spoken except for the occasional “Eh, oop lad” or, hang on, I’m writing this by the pool and some bloke’s just walked out onto his first floor balcony stark naked. He’s standing there looking around and, yes, he’s found his shorts and he’s put them on. So anyway, yes, no English voices apart from a Northerner complaining about the burgers or the lager every so often. Most of the guests are Spanish, Italian, French and of course German. It never ceases to amaze me what strange combinations of food and in what quantities the foreigners eat. A normal breakfast for many of the women seems to be three slices of very thickly-sliced toast with a slice of cheese and a slice of salami laid on top of each one. Two chocolate croissants, which they break open and add the contents of three chocolate spread cartons before they even think of taking a bite. Two or three doughnuts to follow plus an assortment of cakes and fancies. This isn’t breakfast, this is afternoon tea.

And guess what?

They’re all not slim. Would you believe it eh?

They waddle back from the buffet tables with their plates of breakfast piled high in precarious towers of toast and cakes and then try to eat it all without it collapsing all over the table. A bit like that game where you have to remove a brick in a tower without it falling over only in this case the winner is the one with the most crumbs down their front, around their mouth, on the table and all over the floor. The other morning one woman disappeared under a mountain of crumbs, was hoovered up and we never saw her again.

There are lots of tattoos about, mainly on young women. They seem to have ignored the more traditional styles of KILL and HATE on their knuckles or a ship’s anchor on their forearm like Popeye in favour of a sort of squiggly pattern on their lower back and shoulders. It looks like a secret sign as if they’re all members of a secret society or paid up members of the Triads which they may be for all I know.

 

Spain 2002 - Day 6

Saw a novel breakfast this morning. Take one piece of thick sliced toast. Spread with thick layer of chocolate spread. Sprinkle raisins on top and then lay a slice of ham on top of that. Marvellous eh?

It’s very overcast today so we went for a stroll into town to find out the most convenient way to get to Barcelona. We’ve already booked ourselves into a Barcelona hotel for tomorrow night, Pauline did that back home before we came, so we just have to arrange our transport. We discovered we could either go by bus and train or direct by air-conditioned coach which they call a bus as well. The direct route is quicker if slightly more expensive but much more convenient so we booked ourselves onto the 10.45 bus for the following morning. After we’d got our tickets we wandered off to look around the shops. Well Pauline did. I stood around a lot.

When we got back to the hotel room Pauline suddenly noticed that her bag was broken. She had a straw shoulder bag which had split a few inches from the seam, but on closer inspection it hadn’t split at all. Some bastard had cut the bag in a neat line through the bag and lining from top to bottom in an attempt to get at the contents. Nothing was missing luckily but in retrospect Pauline did remember being jostled around by the bus station and having to keep a firm hold on her bag. It was pure luck that they didn’t manage to steal her purse because the side of the bag was gaping open and even more lucky that nothing had dropped out while she was wandering around.

 

Spain 2002 - Day 7

Today is our trip and overnight stay in Barcelona. We got to the bus station for the 10.45 bus and although they’d told us the journey is supposed to take one hour they must count that from the time the bus actually moves off. They obviously don’t count the 15 – 30 minutes spent loading the bus and the bus-driver-standing-around-smoking-and-jabbering time. Good journey though, nice and easy. The bus dropped us off at Placa de Catalunya, the main centre square in the city and once we’d got our bearings we found our hotel was a few minutes walk down a side street just off La Rambla. Pauline had booked the place from home using information gleaned from ‘The Rough Guide To Barcelona’ and we knew that our rooms were fairly large with shared toilet and bathroom facilities on the landings.
 

In fact it was a Hosteria. More of a Pension than a hotel, with a narrow frontage squeezed in between a café on one side and a shop on the other. Huddled outside the small double door entrance we soon discovered that we had to press a buzzer by the door before it would be unlocked and you could walk in. After a few minutes of pressing the buzzer, trying to pull open the left door, nothing happening, pulling the other door, pressing the buzzer again, pushing the right hand door, pulling the other one, nothing happening, pressing the buzzer twice in case it wasn’t working properly, looking for some instructions, giving the buzzer one long buzz and two short buzzes in case there was a secret code, I pushed the left hand door and it opened – the only thing we’d forgotten to try.
 

As I’d given up on either of the doors ever moving at all it came as a bit of a surprise when the door flew open and we all fell through the door in a noisy tumble, bags flying all over the place. The reception desk was so close to the entrance we were all wedged up against it unable to move until one of us managed to release our body vacuum and we all started moving again.
 

The reception area was small.
 

With the four of us and our few bits of overnight luggage it was like standing in a lift.
 

The receptionist girl looked at us and said, “Ere in Barthelona, the doors they push.”
 

Your bloody right door didn’t, I thought to myself but decided not to make an issue of it.
 

Every time she saw me after that she started giggling. Don’t know why….
 

Our rooms were up a small metal spiral staircase, along a narrow corridor just wide enough for one person at a time and then onto a landing where four rooms were so close together we all had to take turns to go in and out otherwise we’d be stumbling into each other and the other residents on the landing. Our room wasn’t that big, it certainly wasn’t ‘fairly big’ as it had been described to us over the phone but by now that didn’t come as a great surprise. It had one of those floor to ceiling French windows with iron railings across the outside of it to stop you falling to your death in the yard below and a lovely view of the wall of the building next door which was so close I could reach out and touch it.
 

Still, it had air-conditioning and it was remote controlled from the bed.
 

It was a big fan on a wooden chair in the corner of the room and using the remote control, a long stick provided by reception, I could lie in bed and switch it on and off. It had a multi-directional air flow too. I could use the stick to move the chair around and into any position I wanted to.
 

Because of the general smallness of the place, getting out of your room and out of the building was a bit like being in one of those bedroom farces. Quietly open your door, push your head out to see if anyone was on the landing, if they were smile and nod and duck back inside. Try again and if the coast was clear, make a dash for it running and bouncing off the sides of the corridor, clattering down the spiral staircase and into the street before two or three other people appeared and the place was too crowded to move again.
 

Once all four of us were outside leaning against the wall puffing and panting we made for a nearby café for some lunch. The idea was to use the rest of the afternoon to stroll around the town before moving on in the evening to see the famous Barcelona fountain displays which were situated a little further across the city.
 

Leading off from the Placa de Catalunya is a very long boulevard called Las Ramblas and it’s here that you find every tourist in the city at some time or another. It’s very much like Covent Garden only in one very long, straight and wide road, stalls along its length and street entertainers every few yards or so. It seems the most popular form of entertainment is ‘Statues’. There are two types. People are either dressed to look as much like a real statue with their whole bodies and clothes covered in makeup and dye to give the impression that they’re made of metal or stone and the other sort are dressed up as a well-known character, Charlie Chaplin, Michael Jackson, Mickey Mouse etc. Whatever they’re supposed to be, the routine is just the same. You have to stand motionless for as long as it takes until somebody throws some money in your hat and then, if you’re a statue you perform a few robotic movements or if you’re a character, you perform a few of that character’s famous moves or mannerisms. The statues outnumbered the characters easily. There was even one bloke made up to appear to be a statue in white porcelain sitting on a white porcelain toilet with his white porcelain trousers around his white porcelain ankles reading a white porcelain newspaper. I never saw anyone put any money in his hat so I don’t know what he suddenly did when that happened. A shit I suppose.
 

Most of the statues did look remarkably effective but spent most of their time standing around motionless looking bored.
 

Pauline went into a shop and when she came out I’d collected 20 Euros in small change.
 

One of the most realistic was the toilet man but the effect was ruined for me when I saw him later in the afternoon off-duty, trudging along the street pulling his toilet behind him tied on to a small shopping trolley. Nobody gave him a second look – and there’s a thought – if I can get Pauline to do something similar when we’re shopping in Maidstone we’ll never have to waste time trying to find the nearest toilet every ten minutes or so will we?
 

It was a good afternoon, we walked around the town, visited the cathedral and then back along Las Ramblas again. We stopped off for a snack and then it was off to see the fountains which started at 21.30.
 

We decided to get there on the Metro, it was just three stops away. At the ticket office we asked the girl for four returns. “Where to?” she said. “Back here,” I said – no I didn’t. But she did charge us 4E for a single and then only 5E 80 when we asked for a family return. She only gave us one ticket for the four of us and once Pauline had got the hang of it and didn’t keep walking off with the ticket leaving the three of us on the other side of the ticket barrier every time she went through, it was a very quick journey.
 

The hill of Montjuic, rising to 699 ft. above the commercial port on the south side of the city is Barcelona’s biggest recreational area. Its museums, art galleries, gardens and nightclubs make it a popular place in the evenings as well as during the day and it’s here, in the middle of the Placa d’Espanya that the Font Magica are to be found regularly illuminated in colour and featuring a 15 minute son et lumiere presentation.
 

The fountain display was repeated every half hour and as we actually arrived at about 21.35 we’d missed the beginning and decided to go to a nearby café to wait for the 22.00 display. Emma and Camille wanted chocolate cake but by the time it came we’d missed the 22.00 display so we had to hang around for the 22.30 display. At 22.15 it started to rain slightly and at first we just thought it was spray from the fountains. At 22.25 it was coming down in that sort of tropical sheet rain that pours down for five minutes and then abruptly stops. Only this time it didn’t.
 

So with camcorder poised to record the display, the rain came down by the truckload. Like a true professional I kept the camera running until the end of the display at which time we belted back through the deluge in squelchy shoes and saturated clothes, down to the Metro where we slowly steamed off on the platform. By the time we emerged four stops later our clothes were bone dry. We travelled one stop further on the way back so we could get off at the nearest station to our hotel but when we reached street level we didn’t recognise where we were at all. Nothing looked familiar. I even had doubts as to whether we were still in Barcelona. The trouble was, the metro station had so many exits, spread over such a large area underground that although the station was the nearest one to us on the map some of the exits took us miles away. After wandering around and getting nowhere we had to ask directions back to La Rambla, the only place we knew that was close to our hotel, and make our way back from there.
 

We reached our rooms eventually as it was pretty congested on the stairs and landing. By now though I had a well-planned method. A quick run up the clattering spiral staircase, stop off in the broom cupboard until it was clear to go, bounce down the corridor at a brisk trot, stand in the toilet with the door open to give the fat German more room and then a short leap across the landing and into the room. Brilliant. Works every time. The thing is I never saw Pauline and the two girls doing any of this, it only ever seemed to be me. How they always reached the rooms before me beats me.
 

I swear they’ve made our room smaller while we’ve been out. The bastards are moving the walls in slowly. I examined the walls for any signs that they might be on rollers but they seemed solid enough. I’m even walking around now with a permanent stoop, not because I keep hitting my head on the ceiling, it’s high enough, I just feel like I’m going to.
 

Got into bed, turned the air-conditioning on with the remote stick and stretched out, my feet hanging a good six inches over the end of the bed. I discovered that if I put my arms above my head I could touch one wall while my feet touched the opposite wall. Those bloody walls have moved in again, I swear they have. I went to sleep and dreamt that I woke up in the morning with my head, arms and legs poking out through the door and windows like Alice when she took the ‘Eat-Me/Drink-Me’ stuff.
 

I really think that everything in this bedroom is made to 4/5ths scale to try and give the impression of spaciousness.